smilingly thought, he is no Stranger now. But how rare and how
memorable a name! French evidently; probably Huguenot. And the
Huguenots, he remembered vaguely, were a rather remarkable
'crowd.' He had, he thought, even played at 'Huguenots' once.
What was the man's name? Coligny; yes, of course, Coligny. 'And I
suppose,' Lawford continued, muttering to himself, 'I suppose
this poor beggar was put here out of the way. They might, you
know,' he added confidentially, raising the ferrule of his
umbrella, 'they might have stuck a stake through you, and buried
you at the crossroads.' And again, a feeling of ennui, a faint
disgust at his poor little witticism, clouded over his mind. It
was a pity thoughts always ran the easiest way, like water in old
ditches.

'"Here lie ye bones of one, Nicholas Sabathier,"' he began
murmuring again--'merely bones, mind you; brains and heart are
quite another story. And it's pretty certain the fellow had some
kind of brains. Besides, poor devil! he killed himself. That
seems to hint at brains... Oh, for goodness' sake!' he cried
out; so loud that the sound of his voice alarmed even a robin
that had perched on a twig almost within touch, with glittering
eye intent above its dim red breast on this other and even rarer
stranger.

'I wonder if it is XXXIX.; it might be LXXIX.' Lawford cast a
cautious glance over his round grey shoulder, then laboriously
knelt down beside the stone, and peeped into the gaping cranny.
There he encountered merely the tiny, pale-green, faintly
conspicuous eyes of a large spider, confronting his own. It was
for the moment an alarming, and yet a faintly fascinating